Julie & Kishore (11 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The
Hindi word for
king is raja.

We
were on our way to the boarding house where Kishore now lived. After six months
of staying with Aunt Bhamini and Uncle Harilal he decided he wanted to be more
independent. With his Aunts blessing he found a place with three Fijian–Indian
men.

We
entered the house through the back door, which led straight into the simple
kitchen, I squealed as cockroaches scurried across the floor. Kishore
reassuringly
clasped
my hand, le
a
d
ing
the way
,
he took me on a
tour of the house. I peered into the bathroom, the smell of dampness hit my
nose and as I looked up I saw the ceiling was black with mould. The men kept
themselves clean and tidy but as for the house they could only do what they
could. It was extremely basic, the boys had not managed to accumulate much in
the time they’d been there. The landlord had supplied almost all of the
furniture, it was in a pretty bad state. The tatty old couch and two arm chairs
in the lounge room were a horrible mustard colour, while
a
chipped Formica table and four chairs sat in the
dining room.

I
asked Kishore why, since all the men worked, they couldn’t afford a better
place to live in. He explained the boys each felt proud to be earning in a
foreign country but were expected to contribute to their families by sending
money back home.

I
was taken aback when shown his bedroom which he shared with one of the other
men. His landlord had also supplied his bed and a small chest of drawers.
Kishore’s belongings were minimal. All he had to his name were a few clothes,
an alarm clock, with a built in tape player and about ten music cassettes.
Flicking through them, I saw there were many by his favourite singer Mohammed
Rafi. Looking closer I noticed another singer called Kishore Kumar.

“Who
is this singer,” I asked pointing at one of the cassettes.

“He
is a very famous Indian singer, a classical superstar, I am named after him,”
he proudly announced.

“What?
You’re named after a famous singer! Ha, I am named after a famous actress and
singer called Julie Andrews, what a coincidence.”

When
an Indian baby is born the parents consult an astrologer who is given the
baby’s birth date, time and place of birth.
With this
information
he
confers with
his charts
. He comes to a conclusion and
writes a note to the parents suggesting
a letter or sound the baby’s name should begin with. On that premise, the Mum
and Dad choose a name embodying the future of that child. A name that will
hopefully ensure the child will enjoy a long, happy and prosperous life.

Looking
around the depressing room, I had hoped to see a photograph of his family but
there were none on view.

“Kishore,
do you have any photos of your Mum and Dad?"

Kishore
gazed at me, a blank expression on his face, “No Julie
,
”
he finally confessed, feeling a little embarrassed. Being so far from home he
realised perhaps he should have but it had never occurred to him.

Kishore
spun on his heel and
faced his
chest of
drawers, turning to look at me, he announced, “Julie, I would like to show you
something that is very special to me. I have never shown this to anybody
before.” Kneeling down, he carefully pulled open the bottom drawer. Instantly,
a strong smell of incense invaded my senses. Inside the drawer, neatly
presented on a red cloth was a little statue of an Indian god. Next to the
statue lay a little lamp ready to be lit.

“This
is my temple,” he proudly told me. “After showering every morning I pray here
and light incense which we call doop. On Saturdays and Tuesdays I light the
diva (lamp).”

I
instinctively knew Kishore treasured the temple and felt proud and honoured he had
shown it to me. As I peered closer I noticed a tiny golden pendant sitting next
to the little god statue
,
it looked like
a Nazi swastika. My first thought was one of disgust.

“Why
do you have a swastika in your temple?” I almost accused.

“No,
Julie,” he quickly replied. “It is not a swastika, we call it a Rangoli.” He
explained further. “I was always told the Nazis took this symbol and changed it
slightly to suit them, unfortunately
now,
more people
associate the symbol with Hitler and World War
Two,
instead of peace." He continued
,
"It is a
very important symbol to Hindu’s, I guess it is as important as the cross is to
Christians. Julie, the Rangoli is a sign of peace and love.”

On
the way back home in Kishore’s car, I thought more about his life in India. I
had for the first time seen where he lives in New Zealand. I felt privileged
that
he had shown me the house and his temple but after
such serious talk regarding his faith, I felt the mood needed to be lightened.

“Kishore,
when you were growing up in India did you have a toilet in your house?”

Glancing
over at me, he saw the innocence in my eyes and decided then and there to play
a trick on me.

“No
Julie,” he replied sadly. “We didn’t have a toilet.”

“Oh,
so where did you - you know - go?”

By
now Kishore was forming a story in his mind, his face took on a sad expression,
easy enough to do as he was driving and didn’t have to look at me.

“Julie,
there was one toilet on our block and only men were allowed to use it.”

“What!”
I replied. “That’s awful.
The men only had one toilet between them? How did
they all use it?”

“I’ll
tell you,” Kishore eagerly responded, getting a grip on a good story. “Every
morning the men in our area stood in line outside the toilet with a newspaper
under their arm. They would wait while each man had their turn.”

I
could never imagine Kishore lying to me so I completely went along with his
story.

“What
about the women?” I asked. “What did they do?”

“The
women weren’t allowed to use the toilet, they had to get up very early around
three o’clock every morning and go out into the bush."

I
was outraged, I found this appalling but then common sense took over. Looking
over at him I caught a twinkle in his eye. I now had an inkling he was tricking
me but I decided to
‘play his game’
and
 
go
along with him to see where his
story would take me.

“They
went out in the bush!" I exclaimed, "So if we ever go to India, is it
still like that, will I have to go in the bush as well?”

Kishore
was trying his best to be serious but it was becoming too hard for him, he
could feel giggles bubbling in his chest, he couldn’t hold it in much longer.

“Yes,
you will but you’ll have to be very careful because there are insects and small
animals around at that time of the morning.”

That
was it, he couldn’t contain himself any longer, the bubbling giggles erupted
and he burst out laughing. His laughter became so intense he had to pull the
car over to the side of the road. Of course, this set me off as well, ripples
of laughter changed into waves until tears streamed down our faces. Finally,
feeling
giddy, we managed to take control of
ourselves and wipe our tears.

I,
at last was able to ask, “Kishore, if we ever visit your family home, just
where
will I go to the toilet?”

“It
is okay,” he replied, shaking his head and again wiping his eyes “We have a
normal toilet in our family house.”

Thank
god for that, I hated the idea of getting up early and peeing in the bush.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The
Hindi word for temple is mandir.

Kishore’s
devotion was remarkable. I discovered love notes hidden in the strangest of
places; in the pockets of my jacket, inside my handbag, in my car – on the
mirror, the speedometer and in the glove box. They always began with, ‘To
Julie, my precious jewel’ and contained endearing words of love. One particular
note said:

To Julie my precious jewel,

I love you more than words can describe.

The sun provides warmth and light to
each and every living thing on earth.

The earth can’t do without the sun
,
just as I can’t do

without
you
,
my Julie jewel.

Another
note made me realise Kishore felt his dream of finding the love he had seen in
romantic movies had come true. He compared me to India’s national flower – the
lotus and wrote loving words
that
in his eyes and
in his heart I was more beautiful than the flower.

Feeling
brave, we were daring enough to hold hands when walking down the street. We
were surprised to see passer-by’s reactions. People would literally stop
walking or talking to stand and stare at us.

                              
                  
*

I
parked my sunshine yellow Datsun in front of a big old villa and Louise and I
walked up the path towards the front porch. We were visiting two of our other
old school friends, Michelle and Kerry who were flatting in the large house with
two boys and one other girl. It was a grand old home with big rooms, polished
wooden floors and two stained glass windows. I couldn’t understand why the
owners of the house were renting it out, the history of the building alone
would be enough for me to treat it with extreme TLC - tender loving care -
like
an object in a museum but I supposed the landlord needed the rent money.

The
girls and their flatmates did not treat the house with TLC, every surface in
the living room was covered in dust,
it
was as if
someone had sprinkled talcum powder all over. Michelle made coffee and as we
all sat on the cosy chairs
-
we were soon
catching up on all of the gossip. Louise produced a packet of chocolate
pineapple lumps from her bag and as we indulged in the chewy, chocolatey
sweets, it wasn’t long before the conversation
changed
to
what was actually on everyone’s mind – Kishore being my boyfriend.

Kerry
,
the boldest of the girls blurted out the question
they were all to
o
scared to ask -

“Are
you pregnant Julie?”

“Ummm,
no,” I replied trying to keep my tone under control.

“Then
why are you still going out with him? Is he paying you?” this was Michelle, she
quickly followed up with, “Have you checked his passport? He probably wants to
marry you so he can stay in the country.”

I
was infuriated, my face
became
bright red,
if
a raging bull
was around it
would
have
surely
charged at me, how dare they ask me
these questions?
 

Later
in the afternoon, I dropped Louise home and made a bee-line for Kishore’s
house. I told him about the remarks the girls had made, emphasising the last
comment, not because I believed Michelle, I just wanted to see his reaction.
Without a word Kishore went to his room and came back with his passport. Laying
it on the table, he opened a page and showed me a permanent resident stamp
clearly visible. Being a permanent resident was the first step in becoming a
citizen. There was no need for him to marry anybody to stay in New Zealand, he
already had residency.
   

These
types of remarks seemed to be part of the territory of going out with an Indian
man so I wasn’t really surprised when one of the girls at work had the audacity
to make the comment, “Be wary Julie, if you marry an Indian, you marry the
whole family.”

Indian
people look after their elders. Usually the oldest son will take on this
responsibility. The son and his wife and their children and his parents will
all live together in the same house. If the family is wealthy, a house is
sometimes built with three or four levels, with each level containi
ng
its own separate apartment so that each
son
, his wife and
their children can
have
their own separate living quarters.

In
India there is no such thing as rest homes or retirement villages. Kishore had
never heard of this concept until he came to New Zealand. Being the eldest son
of his family, it’s expected the responsibility of his parents welfare in their
old age would fall upon him. Now he was living in his new country he knew one
day he would have to deal with this situation, he knew he would eventually have
to help his Mother and Father, he would think of the ‘how’ later.

He
did know he would not need to worry about his sisters, once a daughter is
married she
usually
becomes the responsibility of her
in-laws family.
 

Kishore
remembered a childhood fable his Grandma had told him to instill in small
children the bond a family should have. That family is extrem
e
ly important.

It
went like this:

A
Father has three adult sons. He is old and dying and the sons begin fighting
over
his
possessions. He hears their bickering and calls
them to his bedside. He tells each son to go to the forest to collect a bundle
of sticks. The sons do as they’re told and soon return to their Father each
with their
own
bundle. He
then
tells each son
to take one stick from his bundle and try to break it. Each son does this
easily
, of course, breaking the stick without
difficulty. He then tells the sons to put all of their bundles of sticks
together in one pile. He asks the eldest son to tie the now large bundle
together with twine. Once the sticks are tied, their Father tells each son in
turn to try to break the whole big bundle. Each of them tries but of course
they
cant
.
                      

You
see, said the Father, there is strength through unity, just like the sticks
alone you’re weak and your bond can be broken. Bound together, like the sticks
you a
r
e strong
-
you a
r
e unbreakable.

                                            
*

We
were strolling together in the warm sun of Western Springs Park
.
Kishore held
in his hands
an
empty picnic basket and blanket. We were
heading back
to
my car after enjoying a picnic lunch in the sunshine.
After
eating we had stretched out on top of the blanket with the soft grass beneath
us. Now
,
as we walked we were looking intently into each
other’s eyes, oblivious of anyone or anything around us. Talking was not
necessary as we were so much in love. Suddenly, a tooting noise from behind
made us jump. A tram taking passengers through the park was about to run us
over! Our romantic moment was forgotten as we quickly scrambled out of the way.
As it chugged passed the passengers laughed and pointed at us.

Once
we had recovered from our fright, we continued on our lovers stroll. I asked
Kishore about something I had seen Indian people do often.

“Kishore,
why do Indian people move their heads from side to side while talking?”

Kishore
,
without answering my question, replied with his own
query,
“
Well Julie, firstly tell me why English people nod
their head back and forth when they talk?"

We
both chuckled as we realised it was each cultures way of saying ‘yes’ or ‘I
agree with you.'

I
also took this opportunity to ask something else I had been pondering.

“Kishore,”
I said, “Why is it that so many Indians own dairies?”

He
again chuckled a little, “I have been wondering when you were going to ask me
that. Julie, it is really hard for some immigrants to find work, even if they
are highly skilled.”

“But
you found work easily
,
” I interrupted.

Kishore
,
ever the darling said, “That’s because I was meant
to meet you, my love and my good fortune.”

“OK,”
I said, feeling
slightly
flattered but
still rolling my eyes a little, “What about everyone else?”

“Imagine
you have just arrived in New Zealand. You try to find work with your degree or
experience but cant.
Maybe your qualifications aren’t recognised here or
the paper work is too costly.”

“Yes,”
I encouraged him “Go on.”

“It’s
easier with immigration to have your own business. That’s why Indians come here
and buy a dairy. Their Uncle or cousin might have done it and they will say,
come over to New Zealand, I have started my own shop,
I
will help you to do the same."

Pondering
this I nodded slightly, “I suppose also when people write back home it sounds
like a big achievement to say they have their own shop.”

Kishore
smiled, “Exactly! A shop sounds very auspicious and is a great accomplishment.”

We
reached the car and holding up the basket and blanket Kishore murmured, “Julie,
if you give me the car key, I’ll just put these in the dicky.”

“What?”
I asked thinking I had misheard him.

“I’ll
just put these in the dicky.”

 
Raising my eyebrows, I said “You can’t say
that Kishore.”

“I
can’t say what?”

“Dicky,
you can’t say dicky, in English it means something else.”

“Really
Julie, tell me, what does it mean in English?”

“It
means, it means…” I fumbled to find the right explanation. “It means a body
part that a boy has but a girl doesn’t.”

He
cheekily looked at me - did he already know what a dicky was in English or was
he teasing me?
     

I
did want to ask if he was pulling my leg or if he really didn’t know but I
didn’t say another word.